“Ah! My child, there is no enigma; she is simply a villain, nothing more! How anxious you make me in still troubling yourself with this woman! Take care! You know how dangerous she and her companions are. Remember the poor General, and this brave fellow killed at Ars. Just inform the police, she will be arrested, and all will be over.” “If I were certain she were as guilty as you suspect her to be, I would do so. Though it is not very gallant to give up a woman.” “What! Chivalry with such people?” “But I have my doubts, Uncle Graff. I cannot make up my mind to condemn her unheard.” “Yes! In a word, you wish to see her again. Don’t tell me any idle stories; I am not so stupid as to be taken in by them. She still holds you in her power. And you are about to risk being murdered, in some dark corner or other, for the pleasure of being deceived once more by such a traitress.” “Uncle Graff, no one will kill me at the opera. It is there I rely on seeing her to-night.” “Are you in earnest?” “Have you disposed of your orchestra stall?” “No.” “Very well, give it to me.” “Promise me you will do nothing extravagant, and that if this woman wants you to accompany her, you will not do so.” “No; I cannot promise that. But I will be on my guard all the same. Agostini shall not knock me over like a pigeon.” “Take a good revolver with you.” “Certainly.” “Ah! _Mon Dieu_! And I was feeling so happy!” groaned the old man. “Suppose you take Baudoin with you?” “Under no pretext. Be assured, however, I am running no risk this time. Later on, we shall see.” The arrival of Baradier cut the conversation short. Marcel returned home to dress before dinner. That evening the _Walkyrie_ was being given at the opera. When Marcel reached his stall, the second act was commencing. The domestic troubles of Wotan, the Scandinavian Jupiter, with Fricka, a real Juno without her peacock, possessed only a slight interest for the young man. Turning round, he leaned his elbow on the back of his stall, and looked about him. Slowly, the boxes began to fill, as though the subscribers had only decided to come at all because they had paid dearly for the privilege. Up above in the amphitheatre was a sea of eager faces turned on to the stage. There was the real amateur and artistic public. But Marcel was not looking for critical observations as to the musical capacity of the different auditors of a masterly piece, rather for the face of a woman. Nowhere could he catch a glimpse of the beautiful profile of Madame Vignola. Two side boxes on the right of the actors still remained unoccupied. And Marcel, again turning towards the stage, kept a watch on them.